


Office Rumour

by alliedwolves



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, I like this even though it has a timeline gaffe so here it is, Pre vampire, Vampire AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26208271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alliedwolves/pseuds/alliedwolves
Summary: Martin lies to Jon, to avoid investigating the Tundra. Jon somehow Knows.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23
Collections: The_Magnusquerade





	Office Rumour

(Takes place after  [ Outreach and Application of Institute Resources ](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/The_Magnusquerade/works/23386996) by Nevanna and was inspired by a chat we were having) 

(The timeline doesn't make sense but I like it, so here it is) 

* * *

Tim left Jon’s office with a huff of breath, nearly bumping into where Martin was waiting to take in tea. Guiltily, he wondered if he’d been overheard, pointing out the weirdness of Martin’s asking if his tongue was infested-looking. Maybe Jon wasn’t the only one being a bit sharp with all that was going on. 

“I don’t know if you heard that last bit, Martin, but Elias sent down more CO2 canisters for us,” Tim said. He’d said the right thing, if Martin’s visible shudder of relief was any indication.

“I’m really glad. Sasha got out of the way only because of one, and that gangly hand-guy, so. I'm glad she's okay, and that there’s a way to kill them? That isn’t, stepping on them and hoping they don’t just, eat through your shoe, you know.” Martin had a few plasters on his forearms, possibly where he’d had to dig the things out. Tim looked at them in concern. 

Martin followed his gaze, and found the mugs in his hands. “Oh! Oh, I made tea, and I thought I’d give you and Jon yours? Just a splash and half a sugar, right?” 

“Right.” Martin might not be the best at his job, but it was a puzzle as to how he got to be that way, given how quick his memory was for things like this. The Dunning Kruger Effect? Kissassing? Probably not. Martin had his faults, but he wasn’t a Heap of sodden grasping placation. 

“Thanks. You might have to wait on Jon’s though, he’s in a bit of a mood, and you  _ know  _ what he’s like about disrupted statements,” Tim cautioned as he walked off. He had a date with some used cassettes, coloured sticky notes and  _ corrections _ . 

Martin could hear the statement through the door. The offices weren’t exactly  _ soundproof,  _ since they’d never expected tape recorders to feature so heavily in archival work when this place had been built, Martin guessed. Tim would probably know more, with his interest in the architect who built the place, but Martin didn’t know. Didn’t care, to be honest. It was nice to hear Jon enjoying himself, theatrical with this statement as every single one before it. 

* * *

> _... his name was Peter Lukas,  _

The name sent a full tremor through him, though he’d swear he’d never heard it before. He stood and listened at the door, heart hammering coldly in his chest.

> _ \- he was the only white guy in the place. Even by those standards he was very pale, weirdly so for someone who apparently lived their life on the sea. He sat there at a small table, completely alone, drinking a cup of black coffee. He was staring into the distance, and didn’t seem to notice anything going on around him. I sat down opposite and coughed. _
> 
> _ His eyes only moved a fraction of an inch to focus on me, but it felt as though the movement had the weight of a heavy stone door. Like a tomb. Don’t know why that’s what popped into my head, but there you go. I asked if he was Peter Lukas, and he said, “Yes”. I’d gone blank on what to say... _

Martin listened to the whole statement. All of it, and he could not help the weird, sickening feeling of unrest that washed through him. It felt like his mother’s disdain and Jon’s disappointment and the uncomfortable cold shoulder of every kid in school who’d decided he wasn’t worth mocking. Indifference.  _ Forsaken.  _

He had to get out. He couldn’t, he couldn’t handle this unknown fellow he’d never  _ heard of,  _ who was both familiar and  _ alien.  _ Alienating? Like a bus stop smoking shed in July, stale tobacco and laced fog and the sense that he really, really shouldn’t be here. 

But. He gripped the mug, his opening, his way out. 

What was he meant to say? ‘Oh, it’s giving me a weird vibe’? They were  _ paranormal investigators, Mah-tin,  _ things are  _ supposed  _ to give you ‘weird vibes’ and it can’t all be  _ politely chatting with old ladies named Angela about their jigsaws.  _ But for some reason, even thinking of “The Tundra” and its seaman left him cold, clinging to himself. He found himself thinking of his mother’s absent presence again. Somehow, that was better than whatever was making him feel this way about the Lukases. 

He stepped in once he was  _ sure  _ it was Jon speaking, not whatever persona he’d put on for the _proper_ recording. He’d never interrupt one of _those_. 

Jon looked shocked, and flustered. Martin didn’t have time to ponder before Jon frowned up at him over his glasses. 

“Martin? What on  _ earth–”  _

“There’s, my mother, she’s not well, and there’s, it’s a family emergency.” He knew how to lie, and lie well. He took the pieces he had to hand, told no  _ real  _ lies, but implied and moved the words around in  _ just such a way– _

“I’m, I’m really sorry, but can Tim do investigate this one? Or Sasha maybe if it can wait til she’s back from leave?” Martin could feel heat rush back into his cheeks, embarrassment overwhelming the lingering fugue state of listening to Jon talking about that awful ship and its lifeboat ritual. 

Martin was wringing his hands, almost, and something seemed… awry. Jon had no doubt the man was distressed, it came out of his every pore, but it still didn’t sit quite right, and he had the strangest feeling he was being lied to, or misled. He filed that suspicion away for further analysis. 

He kept his eyes locked on Martin’s as he finished the tape recording. 

> “Tim seems to have his hands full with the  _ inquiring minds  _ and  _ scrupulous continuities  _ of the Library, and Sasha did eventually agree to take the next few days as a long weekend, so I am at something of a loss as to how to follow up this statement. I  _ was  _ going to send Martin to investigate, since not even  _ he  _ can mess up the scrupulous records required of the immigration office, but as he has been called to deal with a family emergency, I will look into the matter myself. Supplemental breaks.” 

“ _ Thankyou”  _ Martin gasped out in one breath, not even quelled by the intensity of Jon’s glare. 

“You should probably take a CO2 canister with you. In case you’re Prentiss’s target rather than a, a, plaything, for some  _ unfathomable  _ reason.” 

Martin nodded furiously, leaving the long-cooled tea on Jon’s desk without a thought. Jon drank the cold tea absently and furiously hunted through… something. Port records, probably. Martin closed the door behind him. 

His mum was going to be difficult. He couldn’t bring a big bag, in case she kicked him out thinking he was trying to stay with her for a long period. Not that she’d be  _ wrong  _ that he’d been kicked out of his flat. Just for wildly the wrong reasons. 

* * *

His mum was a challenge.  At least she was a challenge that Martin mostly  _ understood _ , and as long as she was there glaring daggers at him, and the staff tried to assure him it wasn’t him, that she was just having one of her bad days, he didn’t have to think about  _ whatever’s  _ in the statement.

He couldn’t bring himself to stay longer than two days. He started feeling sick, anxious to the pit of his stomach, but that was probably trauma. None of this is, however, anything he could talk about with his mum, who had the staff insist he go in case she catches ‘whatever vile thing he’s got’. The nurses say it more nicely, but he knows. He’s learnt how to speak her mumbling, painful, laborious language. Not a stomach flu, even if his mum used that as her excuse to tell him to leave. 

Whatever it was, the nurses couldn’t spot it, and he leapt on the suggestion that it must be psychosomatic. 

If it’s psychosomatic, he could go back to the institute. 

He was sure he’d feel  _ better  _ back at the institute. 


End file.
